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Half an hour earlier.
On the beachhead position northwest of French Fry Harbor, darkness and silence reigned.
Without getting close and looking carefully, one would never spot the helmets hidden behind sandbags and earthworks, nor the gun barrels concealed beneath camouflage nets.
At first, 50 people manned the position. After several shifts, only about 30 remained by nightfall.
Lying beside a fixed Whirlwind grenade launcher, a player in an exoskeleton couldn’t help yawning and muttered softly, “Damn it, did those Mutant Humans swim to the South Pole or something?”
“Why haven’t they shown up yet?”
It was already past 8:00 at night in the wasteland. In their real life, it would be time to wake up and have breakfast.
Another player squatting nearby pulled a helpless face. “Who knows, there’s no guarantee it’s even Mutant Humans coming ashore. Might just be a few crabs.”
Hearing something about crabs, the guy who had been yawning instantly perked up, swallowed, and said,
“That...
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